Frankenstein: Or, The Modern Prometheus

Frankenstein: Or, The Modern Prometheus

3.7 245
by Mary Shelley
     
 

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"Dover hits a homerun with this slick edition. Frankenstein has never looked so beautiful." — Horror Novel Reviews
Generations have thrilled to Mary Shelley's 1818 novel, the suspenseful tale of a well-intentioned doctorwho dares to play God and the misbegotten monster who wreaks a savage revenge on his creator. Combining elements of Gothic novels

Overview

"Dover hits a homerun with this slick edition. Frankenstein has never looked so beautiful." — Horror Novel Reviews
Generations have thrilled to Mary Shelley's 1818 novel, the suspenseful tale of a well-intentioned doctorwho dares to play God and the misbegotten monster who wreaks a savage revenge on his creator. Combining elements of Gothic novels and Romantic sensibilities, Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus poses enduring questions about ambition, responsibility, the quest for scientific discovery and immortality, and the fate of social outcasts. Acclaimed as both the first modern horror novel and the first science-fiction novel, the story has inspired countless writers and artists as well as numerous film, theatrical, and television interpretations.
Newly designed and reset, this handsome hardbound edition reprints all of Nino Carbé's starkly beautiful pen-and-ink drawings and endpieces from one of the earliest illustrated editions of Frankenstein. Bonus images include five full-color paintings created by Carbé, a noted Walt Disney artist, in the 1980s. The artist's daughter, Elizabeth Carbé, provides a new Foreword

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Stunning original artwork by acclaimed Mexican artist Eko.... In her insightful introduction, Prose paves the way into the depths of Mary Shelley’s original horror story, by recreating the journey which led to the birth of one of history’s greatest monsters.... The new anniversary edition of Frankenstein is a beautiful example of remaking a novel for the 21st century. While remaining true to the spirit of Frankenstein, this new edition strives to introduce the novel to a general audience, with an intriguing new introduction, and stunning artworks that look as though they may have been torn from the dormitory walls of the true Victor Frankenstein.” —Engineering & Technology Magazine

“The author seems to disclose uncommon powers of poetic imagination.” —Sir Walter Scott

“The relevance, aesthetic and moral, of Mary Shelley's novel only augments as we enter more deeply into an era that already has brought us "virtual reality" and seems likely to confront us with cyborgs . . . Frankenstein contains one of the most vivid versions . . . of the Romantic mythology of the self.” —Harold Bloom

“Mary Shelley, in the midst of the idealists, gives the dark side to the ideal being, showing us Frankenstein’s monster.” —D. H. Lawrence

“How did it happen that this modest gothic tale... became caught in a kind of cultural echo chamber, amplifying through the years until, a hundred and sixty-four years later, we have a cereal called Frankenberry [...] an old TV series called The Munsters [...] Aurora Frankenstein model kits [...] and a saying such as ‘He looked like Frankenstein’ as a kind of apotheosis of ugly?” —Stephen King

“Ageless horror classic.” —Hal Hinson

Product Details

ISBN-13:
2940025725480
Publisher:
G. Routledge & sons
Sold by:
Barnes & Noble
Format:
NOOK Book
File size:
454 KB

Read an Excerpt

Frankenstin, Or, the Modern Prometheus


By Mary W. Shelley, Nino Carbé

Dover Publications, Inc.

Copyright © 2016 Calla Editions
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60660-108-2


CHAPTER 1

I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics; and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him, for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family.

As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition and could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship, and was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the world again through his credit and assistance.

Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself; and it was ten months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the mean time he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a merchant's house. The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling, when he had leisure for reflection; and at length it took so fast hold of his mind, that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.

His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness; but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing, and that there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw; and by various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life.

Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her, and she knelt by Beaufort's coffin, weeping bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend he conducted her to Geneva, and placed her under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.

There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection. There was a sense of justice in my father's upright mind, which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved, and so was disposed to set a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the doating fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace to his behaviour to her. Every thing was made to yield to her wishes and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind, and to surround her with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During the two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after their union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as a restorative for her weakened frame.

From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother's tender caresses and my father's smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me, are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something better — their child, the innocent and helpless creature bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me.

For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desire to have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a passion, — remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been relieved, — for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin, and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold her without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features.

The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a German, and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy — one among the schiavi ognor frementi, who exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died, or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria, was not known. His property was confiscated; his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her foster parents, and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.

When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of our villa a child fairer than a pictured cherub — a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them, but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want, when Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents' house — my more than sister — the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and my pleasures.

Every one loved Elizabeth. The passionate and most reverential attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother had said playfully, — "I have a pretty present for my Victor — tomorrow he shall have it." And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth as mine — mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me — my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only.

CHAPTER 2

We were brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in our ages. I need not say that we were strangers to any species of disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together. Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense application, and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge. She busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets; and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss home — the sublime shapes of the mountains; the changes of the seasons; tempest and calm; the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of our Alpine summers — she found ample scope for admiration and delight. While my companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things, I delighted in investigating their causes. The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine. Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature, gladness akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest sensations I can remember.

On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave up entirely their wandering life, and fixed themselves in their native country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a campagne on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league from the city. We resided principally in the latter, and the lives of my parents were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd, and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my schoolfellows in general; but I united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He composed heroic songs, and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure. He tried to make us act plays and to enter into masquerades, in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels.

No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their caprice, but the agents and creators of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled with other families, I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and gratitude assisted the development of filial love.

My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in my temperature they were turned not towards childish pursuits but to an eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments, nor the politics of various states possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things, or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied me, still my enquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.

Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral relations of things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men were his theme; and his hope and his dream was to become one among those whose names are recorded in story, as the gallant and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home. Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was the living spirit of love to soften and attract: I might have become sullen in my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval — could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? — yet he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity — so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real loveliness of beneficence, and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring ambition.

I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery: for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion, which afterwards ruled my destiny, I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys.

Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age we all went on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon: the inclemency of the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate, and the wonderful facts which he relates soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind, and, bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked carelessly at the title-page of my book and said, "Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash."


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Frankenstin, Or, the Modern Prometheus by Mary W. Shelley, Nino Carbé. Copyright © 2016 Calla Editions. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Mary Shelley was an English writer who worked in a variety of genres, in addition to her work editing the poetry of her husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley.

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Frankenstein 3.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 245 reviews.
BluWolf More than 1 year ago
This is a reprint of the original text. It is considerably different from other versions, and the sections that were altered in later editions are included in appendices for the reader's use or curiosity. The Oxford edition, like their other classics, offers many notes on the text, additional resources, a chronology of the author's life, and many explanatory notes that help the reader move right along in the text. I highly recommend this version for schools. I used this in a college class and made a much more efficient use of my time because the legwork that the editors have done to provide comments and notes saved me from having to discover allusions or references for myself or skip them altogether. It's a great story. If you chose to look more closely, this book raises a lot of questions about human interests at their core. The book, although almost two centuries old, raises questions that are still relevant today - some of which still have no definite answer.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
With missing passages and characters in place of letters, this version is a ghastly abomination of Shelley's masterpiece, and more than challenging to read. There are better copies out there!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Don't get this copy!! There is gibberish all over the place from Google that, in my opinion, is too distracting to be overlooked. I haven't even read the book yet and just deleted my copy from my nook in search for a better version!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
While this specific downloadable edition of Frankenstien I do not suggest (it lacks many important things such as discernable chapters and has the Google logo sprinkled throught in the most inconvienent places). Mary Shelly's Frankenstien is one of the few "classic" novels worth such an esteemed title, telling the tale of an unloved outcast and how a lack of compassion can turn a blank slate of a person into a vengeful monster.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The writing style is dated and can be challenging. Once I let the story grab me though, I found a story I only thought I knew. Not a "horror" story by todays standards, but a thought provoking story of science for science sake.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Why are you people using the review section to pretend to be cats from warriors? The review section is supposed to be used to tell people how they thought the book they read was and give a comment that can help people decide whether they want the book, not to pretend to be cats. The book "Frankenstein" is a great classic and a good read.
Guest More than 1 year ago
When I first started reading this book I did not know what to expect. I found myself surprised at the differences between the book and the movie versions I had seen. It is a very well written book and I really liked how Mary Shelly developed the character of the frankenstien monster as an intelligent and lonely creature. The book had a much deeper message than I expected. I was expecting to read just another horror story and found myself stumbling upon a masterpiece.
Guest More than 1 year ago
we all know frankestein as the monster.in this book you understand the feelings of mother who has the heartbreak of his dead child, how she was disappointed,how hard she tried to give birth to his child who left the world she was living in.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Had to figure out lots of words due to spelling and rendering errors.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I can barely read this because things arent spelt right
cheesepuff_mike More than 1 year ago
Frankenstein is a classic. A true work of literature. Any of you haters want to hate on the book, that's fine. Sure, some versions are crap. But if your lucky enough to find the true original, and understand the text, then you will experience raw, amazingly amazing Gothic horror.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Written well, but just a very depressing book. I always have to finish a book, so I forced myself to read as much of it as i could so that i could get it over with and stop feeling down from it.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The version is exactly what I was looking for but it say digitized by google every other page
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Don't read this thinking it is a "Horror" story, that is something Hollywood turned it into. The movies are nothing like the book. The creature can learn, talk, and empathize unlike the blundering creature in the movies. If your expecting anything like the movie skip this if you want to know what the films have defiled (with the exception of the 1994 version which is as close as they get) give this a read.
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